50+ Musings

Beauty out of Ugly Things

Published on October 5, 2014 by Hope Webster1 Comment

All feels intact in my world this moment when our hands are joined, encircled around the dinner table and we bow our heads and speak words of gratitude to God
for food,
and company,
and life,
and whatever else comes to mind…..
And the sixth seat is occupied.

Contented mama sighs.

While it’s not my brown haired firstborn keeping it warm on Thursday nights anymore, it’s younger sister’s blonde haired buddy who routinely adds her delightful presence to the chaos before a rousing evening of square dancing with the old folks at the Senior Citizen Center.

“Why is it so important to me to fill every chair?” I muse. I’m happy to add the piano bench too. More is better but less is unsettling– sad even…..

I project forward and imagine fewer seats with warm bodies in them. And contentment goes south replaced by heaviness in my chest momentarily. Then I’m interrupted by banter ramping up around the table.

One kid says, “The guacamole is great tonight. What’d you do different?” While another chimes in, “Can I have another taco?” Robyn interjects randomly, “I think 75 is the perfect age.” “And, I hope everyone I love dies at the same time so I don’t ever have to be sad.” Wow, Robyn. You got 2 whole sentences in a row set out without interruption. Amazing! Then, there it is, the next free flow of consciousness expressed as the youngest emphatically states, “It is biblical truth that Sunday is the first day of the week!”

In the course of 30 seconds we’ve covered all the basics–food, the Bible and life…. Meanwhile, I’m half listening to the Bluetooth speaker in the background playing,

….Pain has come and taught us to fear.
We’re gonna need some grace now to fill the air.
…….We need eyes to see
How You’re working beauty even out of ugly things.

You break me to bind me.
You hurt me, Lord, to heal me.
You cut me to touch me.
You died to revive me.

You do all things–You do all things well.
Father, You do.
You do all things well.
(Tenth Avenue North: You Do All Things Well)

And I am distracted by thoughts of
The mom I know with 3 teenagers, cancer and a broken leg all at the same time,
The single dad caring for 3 young children while his wife is in addiction rehab and my friend raising 2 boys alone because her ex changed his mind about the definition of a marriage covenant,
Innocent children turned adults, gnarled and twisted in their sexual identity as a result of abuse,
The delightful 3 year old in my music class with a port in her chest for chemotherapy,
Unrelenting Depression pummeling body and soul more than one person I love,
Orphans in Haiti who long to go home with forever families but can’t because paperwork has to be processed by lazy, corrupt politicians,
Marriages stuck in “winter but never Christmas”,
And my own girls groaning through their own growing pains—physically and emotionally as they metamorphise into womanhood,
And all the waiting, which wearies me most….
Plus, the long list of daily annoyances that grind on my nerves like traffic jams, never ending errands, home repairs and drought.

I find myself in a silent but animated conversation with God while the banter at the table becomes white noise.
And I ask, “Really God, Really are you doing all things well?”
“You break me—Yes, I can agree with that.”
“In order to bind me? Hmmm…. That sounds severe. Is that really necessary?” And then I reflect on my modus operandi for life-my propensity to figure everything out myself, make my own way, forge my own path and I admit–Maybe it is. I guess we both know I’ll cut and run self-protecting my empty ambitions unless I’m securely attached to You.”

“You hurt me—Oh, I’ve been hurt all right.”
“In order to heal me? Maybe…..I guess I wouldn’t have known you were the great physician body, soul and spirit without all those pain receptors screaming for relief that only comes from your restorative care.”

“You cut me—And it’s not just blood that flows, it’s festering infection being exposed and released.”
“In order to touch me? ……Why would you even want to handle that mess?”
“You expose it to touch it? First, you clean me up. Then you place that bandage gently over my wound or carefully sew one stitch at a time. And it is your touch that sets my wound on a regenerative path.”

“And you do all things well?”
“Let me think about that….”, I say as if I am the judge of what is good…. Funny. Absurd even.

“You died—Yes, I believe that. You were broken, hurt and cut.”
“In order to revive me from my own spiritual death?”
“That’s the part that leaves me scratching my head.”
“Why would you do that? “
“God, that’s really not a very good deal for you.”
“You overpaid for what you got in return.”

And then I sigh and pause from all my silent speaking and listen. He responds tenderly,
“No, I got just what I wanted, just what I loved.”
“I got you.”
“And since I died to define love, I get to decide how that love is meeted out.”
“All that hard stuff you can’t make any sense of, I’m doing something in that too, making beauty out of ugly things- and you can trust me with it.”
“You can trust me with cancer
and depression
and single parenting
and hurting children
and broken marriages
and abuse
with traffic jams and droughts
and the never ending errands.
You can trust me when there are only 2 at the kitchen table and there is no banter and then maybe only one.
And you can trust when you’re 75 …..

And there I am again, this time sitting at my kitchen table, but my feet touching holy ground. He has met me and in that moment. Faith trumps doubt and lament morphs into worship. Through the lens of my spiritual reading glasses, the ones God graciously placed over my eyes here amongst the chaos at dinner, clarity replaces a blur.
And like the song, I respond, “You are indeed working beauty out of ugly things.”
“I’m not sure when and how but I know that You really do-
All Things Well.”

Diamonds In The Rough

Published on August 28, 2014August 28, 2014 by Hope WebsterLeave a comment

♬”As one thing leaves to become another–
I remember when–
Oh, to be with summer again….”♬
(Summer Again—The Afters)

“How does God do that?”
I wondered at my first sighting this year of a leaf turned crimson.
Changing from green to red without paint or markers or crayons….
It’s amazing!
A sign that summer is in metamorphosis. Fall prepares to stretch out of its cocoon.
Again.

The Master Creator designed patterns. Seasons prepare the earth for what is next. And life itself is cyclical—birth to death repeated through the generations ad infinitum (so far). Even the weeks have their own designations—time for work, rest, play and worship on constant repeat. And the student measures each school year around the start and end date of summer vacation.

Up close and personal, our annual routine adds relocation between north and south to the mix. Every August marks the beginning of another year on the South side. With a dozen years of practicum under our belts, it’s still a learning curve. A transition that requires me to do more of the only thing I know to do when I don’t know what to do…..again.
Pray.

At this moment I glimpse my dad as I glance at my reflection in the mirror. I see more than his long face, sad eyes and crooked teeth, I also spot his legacy in the habits of my life. Prayer was his rhythm–mutterings to God in the wee hours of the morning on my behalf for all the years we shared on this earth. And there it is–that involuntary sigh. The mirror caught it and reveals the loss I still feel with his prayer covering absent. And today I tell myself that what I have received, can now be freely given.
And it is my time to give.

So, I beat the heat, grab dog and leash and head out the door to put feet to my prayers. I start my conversation with God about my own inner circle. This week some of those beloved people are teaching and learning in new settings, with heavy course loads, amongst health obstacles, with learning challenges and lonely.

I’m distracted walking past one family after another, congregating on street corners in my neighborhood, leaning up against STOP signs waiting for the school bus. I wonder about their stories, the hopes and fears they bring to this monumental moment of a fresh start.
It’s not just one thing they want—that their parents want for them.
We are so much more than minds soaking in data.
We are multifaceted people.
Like diamonds sparkling when we catch the light of opportunity.
A rainbow of colors bouncing off the walls.

Starting a new school year isn’t just about academics. It’s about how God will reveal more of His unique design in and through you and me and how we will shine reflecting His glory. Learning is the process of being formed, shaped and molded.

I have to remind myself of that as I start my own new homeschool year. Tell myself afresh that this is God’s calling for me for this particular year.
And embrace it.

To not grow weary at the starting block anticipating the rigors of the race because every new year is a fresh opportunity for teacher and student to taste of the Lord and see that He is good…. (Psalm 34:8)

He will not let you stumble and fall…. (Psalm 121:3)

He gently leads those who have young and carries them close to His heart…. (Isaiah 40:11)

He has plans for you, a future and a hope….(Jeremiah 29:11)

And so I retain the beauty of my northern summer and embrace the opportunities of my southern fall with this focus:
“There shall be an eternal summer in the grateful heart.”
-Celia Thaxter

And I choose to be grateful…..

Our Double Life

Published on August 14, 2014 by Hope WebsterLeave a comment

It was our grand finale—a trip to Ludington where a dozen delighted kids frolicked on the beach sculpting castles, playing cards, jumping over waves, lounging on floaties and having splashing contests while four moms in lounge chairs enjoyed easy conversation. We cooked hotdogs for dinner sitting in a circle around the campfire and finished off with s’mores before racing to the beach to watch the sunset and dune jump. The sun waved “goodbye” in a blaze of color, as if acknowledging the magnificence of friendships forged over time and shared experiences and we knew it was our turn to do the same–again. There were so many hugs—the little boys resisted. The mamas squeezed hard and long and so did Lily. Tears erupted from turbulent soul volcanoes. “Goodbyes” called from cracking voices through open windows followed by “See you in 9 months,” and “I love you guys,” called out Christine with a “Back to You” returned.

Then there was just the beach and the dunes for miles as darkness descended. Minutes passed quietly except for an occasional involuntary sob. I wondered how to band aid the gaping wound our children were bleeding tears about. What does a mama do with all these tears, especially when you know it was your choices that caused them. I did the only thing I know to do when I don’t know what else to do—pray.

“Hey guys,” I spoke compassionately. “I know we’re hurting. The tears tell us that we love large and we’re loved back– and that’s a gift. The downside of the gift is that it hurts to say goodbye.”

Sigh….. Pause……

“So, let’s take a few minutes to cry it out and then how about if we try shifting our focus away from ourselves and onto those friends we just spent a beautiful day with.” “How about if we pray for each of our friends individually? They have their own stuff to deal with too and we could talk to God about it for them.”
“OK,” Starla responded agreeably.

And over the next 25 minutes, all 16 of those dear people who hold our hearts were brought before the throne of the only One who can fix all this brokenness.

And when we said “Amen”, I suggested we play music.
Robyn chimed in, “I don’t want to hear anything sad.”
So we turned on Jason Gray singing:

…..Every step along the way,
I know You’ll never leave my side.
Whatever the season I can say,
These are the best days of my life…..

And we just kept driving away from the beach.
Just like we just kept driving away from Wheaton College on Sunday.
And just like we drove away from our cousins house yesterday.
And just like we’ll drive past the “Pure Michigan” sign on Saturday– all the way to Dallas to our other life.

The music felt like white noise in the background of my internal banter.
“How did we get here?” I asked myself. “And more importantly, how to do we get out?” I wondered….

I reflected 12 years back.

Like all sincere Christian parents we weighed our options prayerfully when we considered relocation, seeking wise council and did what seemed prudent. Nobody intentionally sets out to break their children’s hearts repeatedly. We were utterly ignorant about the long term implications of our decisions.

When we first drove away, we knew we couldn’t sever ourselves from our northern life completely in good conscience, even if we’d wanted to–which we didn’t. The Bible has something to say about respecting parents and reciprocating the care they blessed us with when their health goes South. So, we came back north to take care of family and that is what jump started our double life—school years in Texas and summers in Michigan.

To some people, it seems almost idyllic—winters where it’s warm and summers where it’s cool. While I appreciate upbeat optimism and grasp for it at times, that assessment is highly simplistic. It might be alluringly exciting for sanguines, but God didn’t wire us that way, and our double life makes us feel alive right in the pit of our stomach.

So what do we do when we can’t find a way to change the trajectory? And there’s no place to seemingly to make a U-turn….

That’s the million-dollar question we can’t seem to escape. We all ask it within our own particular messy stories….

And so we lament—groanings that only God understands.
And we try not to project ahead how many more times He might ask us to do a repeat because we don’t think we have even one more in us.
And tonight in the wee hours, the questions swirling feel a lot like jazz music that doesn’t resolve and leaves you aching with its dissonance.

But all of life is not the dead of night. I hear the girls whispering animatedly in the next room recounting to each other their sweet stories of summer–holding on to the memories in the retelling so they don’t slip like beach sand through their fingers.

Soon, they will drift off to sleep as will I.

And tomorrow, we will all wake up to God’s faithful, tender, mercies that are fresh and new for the day.
We’ll open our hand to accept His.
And trust He’ll take it just as He always has.
And we’ll turn the music up loud and on repeat as we pack up all those Rubbermaid plastic bins and sing,

…..Every step along the way,
I know You’ll never leave my side.
Whatever the season I can say,
These are the best days of my life…..

Savoring the Moment

Published on August 7, 2014August 28, 2014 by Hope Webster1 Comment

I arrive parched, thirsty to drink in the delights of the big Lake every June. Hungry for its soul food.

And it never disappoints me.

Our van erupts in squeals at the first sighting.

There it is, the icon of summer—Lake Michigan.

Hello friend!

I have known you in all seasons. I have heard you speak softly as gentle waves dance onto the shore. Other times your voice thunders with rhythmic, pounding surf and in the dead of winter your language is heard in the stillness of the frozen, snow covered icecaps.

No matter how old I get, I never outgrow the wonder of your beauty. You still take my breath away.

Up and down the natural shoreline, towns dot the coast. Each flaunts it’s own unique persona, each with it’s own charm.

But, Grand Haven is one of my favorites.

I love the aroma of fresh waffle cones wafting past the trolley stop where we wait for a ride. The kids board and race to the back where they can stand and wave at all of the cars to the rear. They craft homemade signs with customized messages saying, “Wave if you like ice cream.” And “Honk if you like chocolate.” They they count their responses as they ride. “I got 74 waves, mama, “ Starla says as the trolley drops us off at the beach where we wriggle our toes in the gritty sand and our feet are washed in the cold waves. Castles and moats are crafted and washed away as the tide rises.

The seagulls dive and scrounge, singing.

As the sun sets, we join the masses on their pilgrimage to the end of the pier where the hopeful fishermen cast out their lines. We walk to the very end, out past the lighthouse and watch the historic sailing vessel full of passengers turn into the channel from the lake, as the sky becomes an original artists canvas in front of us, and we wave.

The channel is the main thoroughfare for boat traffic, complete with a parking lot for docking between the big lake and the inland waterway. It’s sandwiched between downtown to the east and Dewey Hill on the west. Every night of summer, for all of my years, the hill has come alive at 10:00 p.m. Massive, colored water fountains dance to the rhythm of music while families eat ice cream cones on blankets and couples cuddle close in the brisk night air.

Sunday nights at the channel have always been my favorite. That’s when people pack into the stadium with its makeshift stage which edges along the waterfront. We fill the bleachers and overflow onto blankets in soft green grass to worship together. As I take it all in, the sights, smells, sounds–the people I’ve loved for decades sitting next to me–a bunch of our kids in tow, worshiping together in the sanctuary only God could design. It’s nothing short of a taste of heaven. And I embrace this beautiful life I am living in this moment. Boat motors chug along and often stop to listen. I see a man silhouetted against the setting sun. He is on his boat, arms extended wide and high and he too is overwhelmed with wonder.

The band called Sidewalk Prophets sings on this night. We sit so close to the speakers that my chest drums out the rhythm of the bass guitar. As the sun says goodnight in a wave of color sinking behind Dewey Hill, the finale is sung. And these are the words:

Sometimes I think, what will people say of me when I’m only just a memory?
When I’m home where my soul belongs.
Was I love when no one else would show up?
Was I Jesus to the least of us?
Was my worship more than just a song?
Am I proof that You are who you say You are?
That grace can really change our heart?
Do I live like Your love is true?
People pass and even if they don’t know my name, is there evidence that I’ve been changed?
When they see me, do they see You?
I want to live like that and give it all I have so that everything I say and do points to You.
If love is who I am then this is where I’ll stand–recklessly abandoned, never holding back.
I want to show the world the love You gave for me.
I’m longing for the world to know the glory of the King.
I want to live like that.

And I think about my years—all 47 of them completed now.

How quickly the grains of sand have sifted through the hourglass. It is more than half empty.

I reflect on all I have been given…. and all I have squandered. I feel an involuntary sigh release.

It’s that melancholy temperament stealing my joy again–causing me to critique when this moment is meant to be savored. There is a time for everything and all moments are not made for analysis.

So I listen closer as the sun dips below the hill and the sky tints pinks and oranges.

And assessment is replaced with gratitude for this brief life that God has gifted me with.

And the song transitions from reflection on the past and turns forward looking.

“I want to live like that”……

And I realize it’s not about where I have been or even who I am today but instead, what I can be as He continues to shower me with His mercies that are fresh and new every morning.

And therein is my hope for the 365 days of year number 48 that is mine to grab hold of.

The LORD’s loyal kindness never ceases; his compassions never end.
They are new every morning; great is your faithfulness.
Lam. 3:22-23

Chapter 26

Published on July 30, 2014January 17, 2015 by Hope WebsterLeave a comment

We slid down the icy hill hands laced together between the college book store and the dorm entryway. Our hands, still clasped, rested on the heater vent pumping out warm air defrosting our frozen fingers. An hour passed– sometimes two. This went on night after night, week after week, month after month. He just couldn’t pry his fingers loose and walk out the door to do his homework.

Next came the pearl promise ring at the end of a treasure hunt buried in the sand on the beach.

Then an engagement ring and wedding plans….all prequel to the story we started to write together 26 years ago today.

The pages were blank and new, an invitation to compose an original masterpiece ……..

Kneeling at the altar in a white dress and tux, naively, I read these words from Proverbs 31,

Who can find a virtuous and capable wife?
She is more precious than rubies.
Her husband can trust her, and she will greatly enrich his life.
She brings him good, not harm, all the days of her life.
She is clothed with strength and dignity, and she laughs without fear of the future……
When she speaks, her words are wise, and she gives instructions with kindness.
Charm is deceptive, and beauty does not last;
but a woman who fears the Lord will be greatly praised.

That’s the kind of woman I imagined myself becoming on the arm of the man who made me feel safe, wanted and connected. I was excited about our future.

And I had no idea how relentlessly Satan would malign us.

That warm July day turned into a year, then a decade, then two plus six more. Our story included advanced educational degrees, all kinds of jobs, travel, babies, adopted pets. We bought a house and then built one and later moved across country. We buried a child and 3 parents so far. Then sent our first kid off to college. All these markers of time intermingled with a million other snapshots of daily life.

And life got messy in a hurry.

That connected, safe feeling vanished under the weight of expectations. The adhesive of affection and attraction broke down and we were undone.

In word and deed we trampled on each other’s hearts, left each other wounded and withdrew behind our self-protective walls leaving the other to bleed alone.

But God is always doing something redemptive and He delights to blow His warm breath of life into our empty, exposed, icy hearts, defrosting them until they beat again. This time with a better love—His love.

And His love is this:

God demonstrates his own love for us in this way: Christ died for us while we were still sinners. (Rom. 5:8)

His love exemplifies costly personal sacrifice even when the recipient of that love hasn’t earned it, doesn’t deserve it and refuses to receive it. He provided a model for me to reproduce with that guy I chose to write my story with. And vice versa….

In a story, it’s really the ending that matters. Tragedies depict characters that start out optimistically exuding love and hope but succumb to adversity and are ruined by it. Comedies set forth obstacles that leave characters constantly at the edge of their seats. The future looks uncertain but they step into tomorrow one day at a time, smiling, resisting the temptation to be paralyzed by fear and they end with their own customized rendering of “happily ever after”.

One of my favorite songwriters, Sara Groves sings about how marriage parallels this literary construct in her song Re-Write This Tragedy:

Tonight I forgot a line in the play that you and I
Have been rehearsing since the day we met.
It made me put down my script, made me look around a bit
And wonder how we came to play these parts.
Sometimes it’s hard to tell what to keep and what to kill
What of this makes us who we are?
All that we love the most, all that we cannot let go
How much of change can we survive?
So let’s re-write this tragedy.
One line at a time.
Hold on, we’re changing all the scenery.
It’s okay; we’ll be fine–
Cause we know how this ends.
We know there’s a better story–
Of true love
Of true grace.
There’s the hope of glory–
When we can’t stay where we are…..

That’s us– 26 years in. Re-writing our story. Making it better. Leaning hard on True Love and True Grace. Embracing the Hope of Glory.

Thank you Brian! Thank you for marrying your story to mine.

Hopefully anticipating all the chapters yet to be written…

Drive Safely–part 2

Published on July 9, 2014October 5, 2014 by Hope Webster1 Comment

If you think that most conversations I have with my family members are beautifully articulate, grace filled experiences like my last post, think again. The vast majority of my relational holy moments start out ugly and gnarled and are a gift I’d like to return. They become sacred only after processing them raw and real. Sometimes the redemptive part is about a decade later and through the rear view mirror.

Which brings me back to that wretched topic of driving. I don’t know what it is inside me that triggers such anxiety about car travel. Thankfully, God’s loving compassion has no time limit and He’s at work transforming and healing the broken places in His children until the moment we cross over into eternity. I am not the same as I was 10 years ago and that’s good. I am not entirely different and that’s good too.

Back in those days an ambulance siren blaring in earshot caused a physical response in me. My muscles tightened, worry alarms sounded off in my head, and I begin to project catastrophic possibilities for my family members who were out on the road. Maybe it’s a result of generational influence. My mom flipped her car one Thanksgiving Day when she was in her late 30’s. The large bowl of cranberries that splattered bloodlike all over the car, left a stain on her confidence and she never drove again. Or maybe it was the traumatic car accident my aunt and uncle were in when I was 16 and all my memories of hospitals, tracheotomies, comas, vegetative conditions and subsequent death. Only God fully grasps all those secret complexities that imprint on our tender psyches and settle into our vulnerable places. But we spend our lives re-dressing ourselves in the whole armor of God to resist the devils attacks regarding them.

When the girls were young and we built our dream house and moved out to the country, Brian’s work commute increased. Winters were icy on country roads, watching out for deer was as common as avoiding armadillo in Texas but more dangerous. We lived in earshot of a busy 2 lane highway that was famous for fatal collisions. Hardly a day passed without hearing sirens screaming and fighting that tightness in my stomach.

It got dark early in the winters and in those days I actually fed my family dinner at a reasonable time. Brian’s work demands were grueling and required long days. Around 6 p.m. each night, the girls were crabby, whining, hungry. I hoped that every seat at our table would be filled with a warm body but was often unsure when Brian would be joining us.

These were the days before our family technologically immersed in the 21^st century and all its immediate connectivity. Communication was via land line.

My phone conversation with Brian nuanced my recent interaction with Angela at its core. Fear propelled me to grasp for control.

“Call me before you leave the office so I know when to expect you.” I said in a demanding tone.

He responded, “I’m not going to commit to that. It’s not my tendency to remember those kinds of things and anyway, I’m not going to be an enabler for your worrying.”

In case you are tempted to judge Brian harshly, give him a break. If you’d been married to me for nearly 15 years and been submerged into my vortex of anxiety, I’d dare you to do better.

Still, that moment didn’t feel very relationally sacred to me, nor did it foster deeper connection or greater trust.. But God is faithful. He’s always up to something redemptive and what I’m discovering is that the raw, ugly struggle of processing relational disappointments with God is consecrating too. Perhaps more so because it costs something to embrace it—its currency is humility, forgiveness, resisting the urge to repay hurt with hurt and substituting truth for lies about my identity in Christ.

I have to take off my smelly shoes and stand barefoot in His presence. And He meets me there. At times, the ground beneath my feet feels like lush well watered bluegrass and sometimes it burns like sun baked sand on my soles.

Either way, it’s still holy ground.

Drive Safely

Published on July 3, 2014July 30, 2014 by Hope Webster1 Comment

Unintentionally it’s become a ritual.

As Angela walks out the door, car keys in hand, I say “Drive Safely”.

This time she smiles exasperatedly at me and responds, “I always try.”

It’s her smirk that permeates the veneer of my thin skin illuminating dark places inside me where fears reside and I realize that my words are primarily self-protective, a coping mechanism to combat the helplessness I feel as my princess, who is precious to me, ventures out on the open road.

So, I process out loud saying, “I tell you to Drive Safely not because I think you need a reminder, but because I feel anxiety inside and putting words to it somehow gives me the illusion that I have an iota of control. “

And there it is, my Achilles heel laid bare, again—

Fear propels me to grasp for control.

And it is exposed in another snapshot of daily life.

She could spiritualize it, minimize my struggle, even shame me for a lack of faith. She could roll her eyes with disdain.

But she pauses and smiles gently, softly and says, “Well, I’ll consider it a benediction then.”

I smile too.

“That would be perfect. I love that idea,” I reply.

“You can even cross me if you like,” she adds.

And she demonstrates the motion of tracing the shape of a cross in the air and explains, “As a prayer it can mean, ‘May the cross always be before me.’ ”

And in the symbol I see it. When the cross is before me, I remember who He is, which gives definition to who I am and who she is and fear is replaced with peace, worry with trust.

And in this sacred moment, we are walking on holy ground.

Becoming a Velveteen Mother

Published on May 16, 2014November 1, 2014 by Hope Webster2 Comments

Mama musings are reflections through the rear view mirror. So, it’s no surprise that my contributions to the topic of motherhood in recognition of Mother’s Day come belatedly. “Later than expected” is characteristic for me. Ask my kids what time I serve dinner or stop by after 11 p.m. and you’ll find that bedtimes are embarrassingly on par with Cinderella’s coach turning back into a pumpkin. I’ve spent the last week chewing on Ann Voskamp’s words about motherhood and how it turns us into The Velveteen Rabbit. I’ve reflected on what that process has been like in my own life story. Remember the famous dialogue between the beloved old skin horse who mentors the newbie toy on the block—the stuffed rabbit?

“Real isn’t how you are made,’ said the Skin Horse. ‘It’s a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real.’

‘Does it hurt?’ asked the Rabbit.

“Sometimes,’ said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. ‘When you are Real you don’t mind being hurt.’

‘Does it happen all at once, like being wound up,’ he asked, ‘or bit by bit?’

“It doesn’t happen all at once,’ said the Skin Horse. ‘You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.”

―Margery Williams, The Velveteen Rabbit

Before I ever held my first Angelic daughter in my arms, there were stories attached to her life—other participants in the miracle of God’s creative human knitting project accomplished by the miraculous union between husband and wife. Her story included an infertility specialist, Selma–the grocery store clerk and nurse VanBuren. Selma died this past year and as I reflected on her simple act of kindness that changed my life forever and her years of subsequent friendship, the tears flowed freely….

And so I became a new mother—green around the ears with much to learn about what Ann Voskamp refers to as the “ugly beautiful of reality and love and humanity and what it means to become real.”

A canopy of golden maple trees waved their greetings to the new little princess riding in the back seat of our royal blue sedan. We had lovingly prepared a Paddington Bear nursery for her to sleep in but she turned the parenting manuals on their heads and slept less than 7 hours a day. She cried inconsolably out of sheer exhaustion but fought sleep with a vengence. That first year, we rocked to China and back in that bentwood chair. Day and night, we’d cuddle close, skin to skin, her nourishment extracted from my own resources. Me singing quietly and praying ceaselessly. She was content only eating, rocking and dancing. And my eyes grew heavy and dark underneath and my back began to bend from the weight of the baby sling and it’s rider who was my constant companion, the bathroom not excluded. I danced lullabies. Brian danced to DC Talk. So I began to understand what it meant to lay my life down and it was a privilege instead of a burden.

Then came our little boy, with fingers and toes but no lungs. His body cold and clammy. We placed him in a cedar box in the ground and a part of me died with him. And I walked through the valley of the shadow of death in the dark night of the soul.

The next little girl came into the world without a cry and my first words were, “Is she alive?” And she was. And light replaced darkness. Joy ousted pain. And we made new family stories together—different stories. She was a doer and shaker, zealous to explore her world without boundaries or fears. And I chased her and snatched her away from the grips of tragedy more times than my nerves permit me to fully recall. And then there were all those tantrums over shoes and coats and “comfortable” clothes. She trained me to become a runner physically and emotionally–a distance runner, breathing heavy, trying to pace myself for a marathon.

Two years later the little sweetheart with a head full of jet black hair came on the scene. And I was teaching and chasing and struggling to be everything everyone needed. I was humbled, empty and overwhelmed. Now there were three sets of hands needing held to cross the street and I only had two. So we customized a hymn tune with the lyrics “Hold hands in the parking lot, hold hands in the parking lot. Hold hands, so we can be safe—in the parking lot.” And she was flexible and content and by God’s grace we survived that season.

I thought my quiver was full but God surprised us with one more. She was the bonus. And I savored all the lasts.

We lived and loved and fought and cried the days into months and years. We strolled and built sand castles and played dolly house. I heard “bookie” and “read-read” a million times and always accompanied by an arm load and pleading eyes. After a time, they devoured their own stories—books and audiobooks alike. “Watch me” they’d excitedly squeal and I would see their stories come alive in plays and shows. Later, I became the driver taking them places where they made their own new stories.

And childhood morphed into adolescence and we packed our bags for an overnight trip at a quaint little B & B in the country where I unveiled the unfamiliar terrain of puberty… and boys…. and relationships under the starry sky while our skin turned prune-like in the hot tub.

Later, we saw the world together in real. We boarded a plane to a place we couldn’t have ever imagined and we saw things we didn’t know existed and we cried and questioned and prayed. And separately and together we were unhinged. New places were rubbed thin.

And then that first little Angel graduated and went to college. And there we were back in a parking lot getting ready to cross the biggest street we’d ever attempted. We said “goodbye”. No singing about holding hands or being safe anymore. There was a releasing, a withdrawing of that hedge of protection and driving 900 miles away knowing things would never quite be the same.

And they aren’t.

At first there was distance, a redrawing of new boundary lines, and it wore a layer off my thinning fur coat. But with time, a seed of mutual respect and appreciation took root and grew into a beautiful and fragrant yellow rose. To my delight my daughter became my friend. And she challenges me– introducing me to new ideas, people, refocusing my spiritual eyes. And when my voice breaks and eyes fill with tears, she takes my hand or rubs my shoulder and comforts me.

And I am surprised by joy.

Now I am more than halfway through this marathon of raising a family. And I’m huffing and puffing at times and basking in a second wind at others. There are wrinkles forming and white hairs replacing brown and a settling of sorts right in the midsection. And there is no more caffeine, and an achy back, rounding of the shoulders and a furrowed brow with worry lines.

And I find that I am rubbed thin—worn, stained, lumpy…. I am becoming that velveteen mother–the “ugly beautiful of reality and love and humanity and what it means to become real.”

Thank you, Angela, Seth, Lily, Robyn and Starla for making me “real”.

Mama’s Musing about Music, Memories and Love….

Published on May 5, 2014July 30, 2014 by Hope WebsterLeave a comment

Experts in child development claim that what we experience with our senses during our formative years, gets tucked away in the miraculously complex organ called the brain and stored even though not always readily available in our short term memory. Like a safe deposit box, your “valuable” memories are protected but not accessed until they are unlocked. Anyone who doubts this need only visit a nursing home where a patient with dementia who can’t remember what he had for lunch 10 minutes ago can hear a loud banging noise and proceed to tell you in detail about where he was when he heard the news that Pearl Harbor had been bombed in 1941.

The same thing can happen to me with music. I don’t typically think about all of those sappy, old 70’s and 80’s “love songs” and I have only recently added a select short list of the most sanitized favorites to my itunes playlist. Prior to that, my life disconnected from them for more than 25 years. But during the impressionable season of adolescence, I went to sleep each night hugging my pillow with my clock radio set to sleep mode lulling me into dreamland.

Fast forward to today. I’m 45 and shopping to replace a worn out spatula in the kitchen utilities department. I hear background tunes being piped through the store and suddenly I am 15 again. Too bad I’m not a contestant on “Name that Tune” at that very instant. I could earn a million bucks. I don’t even need to hear the words before I’m singing along in my mind the music that left indelible ink splotched in the crevices of my long term memory.

It’s like being on autopilot.

♪♬♪♬…..Lookin’ for love in all the wrong places. Lookin’ for love in too many faces. Searchin’ their eyes, lookin’ for traces of what I’m dreamin’ of…..Hopin’ to find a friend and lover. I’ll bless the day I discover another heart lookin’ for love….. (Johnny Lee, 1980)

Because of all the lies about love and distortions about relationships that I internalized from song lyrics, I became a woman on a mission resolved to be deliberate about minimizing my daughters consumption of pop culture’s erroneous messages about love and replacing it with God’s truth. For us, that resulted in limiting TV viewing and curtailing secular pop music. Call me weird–even extreme. Maybe. But all moms have convictions–things they want to be different for their children- and this was one of mine.

So, Angela donned her first choir robe at the tender age of 8, the other girls even younger. Week after week, year after year they sing the Bible’s words and theology of God’s character put to music. When they hear scripture, they begin singing it in their minds. When they read God’s story unfolding, they align it with the truths of faithfulness, love, goodness and mercy that hymns and anthems so articulately describe.

Robyn was 4 when she first wore her blue cubbies vest to Awana club. She couldn’t read but memorized a new Bible verse every week with some help from mom putting words to music. Learning verses earned patches to adorn her vest with and a ribbon when her book was completed. That was 7 years ago. Since then, she’s memorized 100’s of verses and competed with other children to see who could flawlessly speak God’s word from memory. The challenge has been thrilling and exhilarating. It’s a game when I say a reference and she quotes or sings the verse.

When my girls are 30 and 40 and maybe even 70 and 80, it will only take a few words of scripture reading, or maybe just a reference and they will be singing and speaking God’s truth accurately in their minds. Truth replacing lies. Love instead of lust. Wholeness contrasted to heartbreak.

Starla was promoted from carol choir to chapel choir today. Her robe with a cream smock is now history.

Lily just graduated from children’s choirs. Robed in crimson she sang her finale:

♪♬♪♬ Lord, make me an instrument of your peace.

Where there is hatred, let me sow love, where there is injury thy pardon.

Lord, where there is doubt, let there be faith. Where there’s despair, let me bring hope.

Where there is darkness, let there be light. Where there is sadness let there be joy.

O divine master, grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled as to console. To be understood as to understand. To be loved as to love.

Where there is hatred, let me sow love. For it is in giving that we are born into eternal life.

Lord make me an instrument of thy peace.

So, if you’re “lookin’ for love”, look no further for a message to believe in than that. As the song ends, a life that embraces that model of love also concludes with

AMEN.

(I wrote this post 2 years ago. We celebrated the conclusion of our 12^th year in of choir today. Gratitude spilled past my tear ducts and onto my cheeks. Thank you, God, for PCPC, for our choir community, for our dearly loved director and friend, Lynda.)

Easter’s Gardening Miracle

Published on April 21, 2014July 30, 2014 by Hope Webster1 Comment

We lined up the plastic containers and poured premium potting soil with fertilizer in each one. Then Starla gently set 1 seed in each container and covered it with a layer of dirt. Each seed was dormant—lifeless, dead. She watered them dutifully all week and on Easter weekend, they sprouted. One after another the fresh, new green shoots erupted through the soil alive and growing. How kind of God to give us a gardening miracle on Easter weekend. It’s not just our sunflower seeds that have come alive. Jesus is alive. On Easter Sunday we celebrate our future and our hope. We give thanks that we have not received what we deserve and we have received what we didn’t deserve. Ecclesiastes reminds us that there is a time for everything—

A time to plant and a time to harvest……

A time to cry and a time to laugh.

A time to grieve and a time to dance.

Today is a time to harvest, to laugh, to dance because

lent is over and He is Risen indeed. Hallelujah!